


Stygiophila

by Dusty_Forgotten



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, BDSM, Bloodplay, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Branding, Deepthroating, Dirty Talk, Emotional Manipulation, Fingerfucking, Hand Jobs, Horror, Incest, Knifeplay, M/M, Master/Slave, Medical Kink, Multi, Orgasm Control, Psychological Trauma, Puppy Play, Rimming, Romance, Scarification, Sensory Deprivation, Shoe Kink, Stockholm Syndrome, Threesome - M/M/M, Torture, Voice Kink, chemical burns, mild exhibitionism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-18
Updated: 2014-08-07
Packaged: 2018-01-13 00:17:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1205785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dusty_Forgotten/pseuds/Dusty_Forgotten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The horrific romance of the King of Hell and two Winchesters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Did you read the tags? Do that.
> 
> Now with accompanying [soundtrack](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLpdUfmRv8UmP8RJBkBCGiSK9kTgwu_ZBX).

Fire. Burning, searing pain enveloped Sam’s skin as he cried out— _not for Dean, anyone but Dean_ — Lucifer laughing over him, like a hyena, like a madman, reminding _“This will never end—”_

He woke up screaming, took a breath to continue, but decided against it. He was surrounded by noncommittal grey— drywall, not stone— that gently absorbed and dulled light. The canopy was a deep red, as were the silk sheets (which at first led him to believe he was drowning in his own blood). He sat up, wide-eyed, terrified, and tried to catch his breath.

_Clink_  caught his attention as the man in the corner with his back to Sam poured a drink. A black suit jacket outlined his shoulders: a short man (not just by Sam’s standards) with black hair, everything about him dark, despite the light illuminating him through the curtains. Sam stood, shakily, kicking off the unfamiliar sheets. He was in his underwear, but there was a pair of jeans neatly folded on the solid wood nightstand, and a T-shirt he discovered underneath.

The curtains probably would have been burgundy if not for the light fighting through sheer fabric. It cast the room in a bright, blood-colour, and Sam was losing himself in it, _drowning in it—_

The frictionless scrape of a glass being nudged to the empty side of the table pulled him back to reality, this new reality he didn’t understand. He took the seat, and the scotch.

“Welcome back to the world of the living, moose.”

There were so many questions pounding in his skull, fighting for priority with the panic and flashbacks. Outside of his mind, the house was quiet, but not unnervingly so. Somewhere, a television was left unattended. It felt comfortable. Sam hunched over on himself, and held the glass with both hands. “So Dean made a deal with you?”

Crowley laughed at that— one smug bark. “He’d love to, but that’s hardly an option. No one with red eyes is allowed within a hundred miles of anyone with the surname “Winchester” just to be safe. He’s black-listed.”

He blinked in disbelief. Crowley sipped casually at his scotch. “Then... why am I alive?”

The demon swung one arm over the back of his chair. “You should ask your brother’s angel boyfriend.”

“...Cas is alive?”

“And raising the dead out of guilt. He just forgot one tiny, insignificant thing about you in the resurrection.”

Sam didn’t want to ask, but he had to ask. “What was it?”

“Your soul.” He set the glass down, pinkie under to dull the sound. “You remember Bobby Singer?”

“Of course. Lucifer killed him.”

“And Castiel brought him back. By the time Death could grab the squishy bits, your meatsuit killed Singer for a spell. Shame he had to go so young, but he’s all mine now, so it worked out for the better.”

Sam gagged on his own vocal chords. “I... _I_ killed Bobby?”

“Lets not dwell on that. Point is, spell worked, and your body is now Heartless Assholes Only. So Death takes the easy route and drops the leftovers in my jurisdiction. Now I’ve got the soul of a Winchester laying around. What’s to be done about that?”

“Why not throw me on the rack like the rest of the souls of the damned...” he mumbled, falling into the yellow of the drink like the yellow of Azazel’s eyes, the yellow flickers in hellfire, lapping at him...

Crowley whistled, halfway between how one might for attention, and one might for a dog. Sam straightened, and threw back the scotch as the demon continued. “Bloody waste of a Winchester. You’re just like dear old Dad; it wouldn’t do any good. Might’ve worked on your brother, only because he’s so self-loathing. Thinks he deserves to be awful.”

“I’ve been trying to tell him that for years...” Sam smiled weakly. Crowley refilled his own glass, and tilted the bottle and his brow to the hunter. “No, thanks.” His lips hung open while he chewed on his cheek, afraid of the next question on his tongue. “What _is_ a good use for a Winchester?”

Crowley paused with the glass at his lips, took the drink anyway, and smiled. “Guess we’ll find out.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Sam Winchester was smart. He went to _Stanford_.

He knew how to fight, and he knew how to tell if someone was lying, and he knew how to bless holy water, and all the ugly things it would do to a demon.

_“But, wait!” Sam has said when Crowley stood to leave. “What am I supposed to do all day?”_

_He shrugged. “You’ve got pay-per-view and a full bottle of lube in the night stand. I’m sure you’ll figure something out. Lovely day, Samantha.” he said, snapping his fingers._

Fuck if Sam Winchester— a demon hunter since one— was going to jack off until a demon decided it was playtime. He prepared, and then he waited.

He kept the TV Guide channel on, because he couldn’t bear to watch the news. It reminded him that there was a world out there, with Dean living in it, and a Sam Winchester living in it, walking around somewhere, getting away with Bobby’s murder, and Hell knows who else’s.

The front door was locked, and Sam knew the keyhole was just for show. (He had tried picking it with a nail earlier, to find there wasn’t a single tumbler in the lock.) The windows weren’t permeable either, he had discovered after several hits with a cast-iron skillet: which was now concealed under the living room sofa, in case he needed a weapon.

Sam knew from Dean’s little trip to Hell that time ran differently between the planes. He did the math, and five hours on Earth was a month in Perdition: meaning he was going to have a lot of downtime while the demon who was (for some reason) assigned to his psychological torture was dealing in the land of the living.

Which is why he was so startled when the deadbolt clicked open not twenty hours later. He clicked off the television, and tried not to spill what was left of the Craig as he poured with shaking hands over two glasses of holy water.

Crowley didn’t greet him; no “hell, love” or smarmy “honey, I’m home”. He simply slid the metal-core door shut behind him and strode across the hardwood floors. Sam held his own glass against his thigh to keep it from shaking, and scooted his feet a little further apart from his seat on the middle couch cushion, stretching into the space on either side. Crowley walked into Sam’s sightline— _On the armchair, Crowley_ , Sam’s mind pleaded, _I drew that devil’s trap just for you, now sit the fuck down..._ He took Sam’s drink from out of his hand and switched it with the one left on the corner of the coffee table. Crowley skirted around the table, and sat in the limited space at Sam’s left. The demon dunked his pinkie in the drink, and shook it off when it began to sizzle. Wordlessly, he steadied Sam’s glass and emptied his own into it. Sam avoided his eyes.

“I really hope you didn’t ruin the rest of the bottle.” he mentioned, setting his glass on the table, and sloshing Glencraig from the bottle over his two front fingers to check.

“I didn’t.” he responded meekly.

Crowley leaned back into the leather cushion, glass in one hand, index and middle finger of his other in his mouth, and Sam hated him for it, because Jess used to do that all the time just to bother him. Now Jess was dead. So was Sam.

Crowley tapped one finger on the armrest, causing the television to flick on. Sam took the remote and turned it back off, glaring at the demon, who retorted “Not a Steelers fan, I take it?”

The Winchester narrowed his eyes, and shook his head. “Why are you here?”

“One can only take so much demonic incompetence at a time, love. You’re a bit of a dumbass, but you’ve got nothing on the black-eyes, believe me...”

“So, what? They’ve got you babysitting now? That’s a waste, even for you, Crowley.”

“ _They_ don’t tell me to do anything, moose.”

“Oh, _sure_ , and you’re really here because you enjoy my company. Who’s in charge of Hell now, anyway?” Sam prodded.

Crowley stared, lowered his glass, and smiled. “That would be me.”

Sam made it a point to press one sharp chuckle in his face. “You’re just a punk-ass crossroads demon!”

“ _Was_ a punk-ass crossroads demon. Now, King of Hell.”

“Oh, _really_?” he shot back. “And how did you manage... that?” He deflated halfway through the sentence under Crowley’s unfaltering eyes.

“You and your trigger-happy brother slaughtered the entire hierarchy, and I’ve got people skills.”

Sam blinked. “You were Lilith’s right hand...”

The corner of his lip lifted up towards a sneer, but he covered it in a smirk. “Fuckbuddy to the Queen of Hell has its perks.”

“Yeah.” Sam chuckled nervously, his eyebrows jumping up before falling back down.

“If you’re quite finished with the third degree, would you like to watch a bit of television, or skip straight to the happy ending?”

The Winchester huffed, and threw the remote at him.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“This is you life now, Sam.” Lucifer hissed as he drew the knife through Sam’s flesh, scraping the sternum. “This is never going to end.”

Sam screamed as the devil’s right hand cupped the hunter’s face gently, other reaching into his mouth, taking hold of his tongue— and ripping it out. “Just remember, you’re the one that killed Lilith. This is all your fault.” Lucifer’s hand was so cold, it seemed to suck all the heat and life out of Sam.

“Up and at ‘em, Jolly Green.”

Sam wriggled away from the cold in his cheek: a hand tapping increasingly harder. He clenched his eyes shut, and flipped them open again, clearing the fire and blood of his nightmares as he sat up. “...Crowley?”

“As much as I love watching you writhe in pain and horror, the souls have given me enough screaming for the day, thank you.”

The hunter sat up, rubbing his eyes. His mouth still tasted like iron. He was pretty sure he bit his tongue in his sleep. “I was screaming?”

“Like a cheap whore.”

“Sorry.” he apologized instinctively, standing and moving to the end table where his clothes were laid out. He didn’t really question Crowley’s choices— there were too many other things unanswered that he couldn’t separate them. He donned the usual jeans and plain tee, and a black dress shirt neatly folded over top, which was new. He liked it, though. He liked button-ups.

“Don’t worry about it.” Crowley replied as Sam moved back around to where Crowley stood, as he rolled up the sleeves. “Be sorry you were screaming the devil’s name, and not mine.”

Sam scowled and brushed past him; he knew he only had the bravery to do that because he was so much taller than the demon. It gave him a sense of control. “I was talking about a nightmare, not a wet dream.”

“Same thing.”

Sam combed his hair in the bathroom mirror, and strode back into the bedroom. He stood close to Crowley, accentuating his superior height. These nightmares made him feel powerless, and he wanted that back. The demon didn’t lift his head, just looked up blankly through his lashes. “Do you really think you’re scarier than Satan?”

Crowley let the silence hang uncomfortably, then held up his index finger, flipped the palm up, and crook it ever-so-slightly. Sam was pulled to the ground by an unreal force, and leaned heavily on his arm to keep from face-diving into Crowley’s shoes. When the demon spoke, his voice was more hoarse, slightly louder, edging closer to yelling. “I think I’m scarier than a holy-roller with daddy issues. I think I did half the work in getting rid of him. _I_ think he’s chained and caged for the rest of his unnatural life, while I’m the one with all the power of Hell UNDER MY FINGERNAILS!” Crowley crooked his finger a fraction more, and Sam cried out as his insides twisted, clenched and collapsed as the demon leaned over him. “I own you, Sam. The only reason you’re not frying in a hellspawn gangbang is because _I_ think you’re better than that. _I think_ I can use you.”

Sam managed to choke out an honest “sorry”, despite the pressure in his lungs.

Crowley flicked his hand to the side, sending the hunter gasping. “You’d do well to go along with what I think.”

The King of Hell moved away, but the hunter latched onto his pant leg, hair swinging in his eyes. “You called me Sam.”

“I’ll call you whatever I damn well please, whore.”

“Thanks. I’m sorry.”

“For?” Crowley prompted with a cock of his head.

“Making you mad.”

The shorter man ran his fingers through Sam’s untrimmed hair. “Try again, love.”

“For insulting your fragile ego.” he said, smiling up at the demon, who wrapped a hand in his hair and tugged, bringing a whimper.

“What was that, pup?”

“I’m sorry for trying to push you around!” he pleaded. Crowley released, and pushed Sam’s chin up with his thumb. The sun was coming in the window behind him, framing him in light. _Ironic_ , Sam thought, _but fitting_.

“You should be.” he responded, running his fingers through the long tresses. Sam could tell that was basically forgiveness, coming from Crowley. “This is a good angle for you, moose. Keeps you from getting cocky.” He pretended not to lean into the touch as the demon scratched behind an ear. “...TV and a drink?”

The ex-hunter nodded eagerly.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've only written smut like twice before, so a little (gentle) help would be appreciated.

Here he was, Dean fuckin’ Winchester, the man of demons’ nightmares, back in Hell. Again.

It was different since they deep sixed the Devil; less storms and meat hooks, more walls. It was just a bland cell, all to himself: stone walls, solid metal door. It looked like every horror movie torture dungeon, and Dean Winchester, master Hunter, was a stereotypical victim, metal shackles binding his wrists behind his back, a foot’s length of chain connected to the floor.

The entire cell was perfectly dark, but for a single column of dull light, focused directly on him. Spotlight. Centrestage.

The door heaved open to more dark, and back shut. Show time.

Dean couldn’t see a thing outside the perfect circle of light cast around him. He wondered who his torturer would be this time, already started formulating how he would hold out this time.

“Hello, darling.”

Dean paused, squinted uselessly, and scowled. “ _You_? They sent _you_?”

“It’s an honour, I know.” Crowley said, stepping into the light. He looked the same as Dean remembered— some corporate asshole in a suit and tie— a businessman who also happened to be a demon. He was no torturer, meaning Dean wasn’t in for torture. He visibly relaxed.

“Are you here to talk me into spilling whatever secret you asses want now, or are you actually my torturer?” he huffed, voice dripping with sarcasm and self-deluded dominance.

“I’d prefer to do this diplomatically, yes.” he stated with a smile.

Dean kept grinning as he snorted, and spat a bullseye aimed for Crowley’s shoe. The demon just glared at it, eyes narrowing like they did when he was in thought— and Dean never liked the kinds of things Crowley was thinking. Finally, he sighed, and strode back into the dark. “See you soon, love.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Sam could hear the front door click open from the bedroom, and quickly abandoned his game of solitaire. As much as he hated admitting it, Crowley was the highlight of his every day: probably because Crowley was the only thing other than television, card tricks, and endlessly reorganizing the spice cabinet. The demon twirled a single finger, vicariously locking the door behind him, as Sam stepped in, trying his damnedest to mute his excitement.

Crowley spread his arms wide with a not-quite condescending grin. “Daddy’s home.”

Sam actually shivered— in disgust, naturally. He glanced at the couch, and back to the demon. “Are we, um...”

The demon cocked his head, indicating for Sam to follow him as he thumped onto the leather sofa. Always the sofa; Sam didn’t know whether Crowley knew about the devil’s trap hidden under the armchair, or he just wanted to be close to him. He didn’t mind. He had so missed human contact— even if it was, well, demonic. Sam didn’t think about it too much, just plopped down next to the demon and handed him the remote. Crowley clicked on Turner Classic Movies. Sam liked old movies. He liked the unspoken agreement that Crowley would stay through all two-and-a-half hours even more.

The Winchester was a little uncomfortable, however, while Crowley was perpetually comfortable with making people uncomfortable. Sam’s hunter training was bubbling through, scrawling mental notes like _Sits with both arms over back of couch to make himself appear larger_ and _Takes middle cushion: centre of attention._

Crowley’s dark eyes stayed focused on the screen. “What is it, pet?”

Sam shook his head, still scanning. _Pet: Domestic or tamed animal kept for companionship or pleasure. Treated with care and affection._ “You think you’ve got everything worked out, don’t you? Like the whole world’s gonna fall right into place.”

The demon turned to him, then, and smiled coyly. “It’s been the case thus far.”

Sam couldn’t help but smile back, and shyly returned his eyes front, like he always used to do with Dean when he forgot that you can’t stare and drive at the same time. Crowley understood the gesture a little better, hooking his hand around the back of Sam’s neck and pulling him down into Crowley’s lap. He tensed, considered pulling away, but the fingers combing through his hair were warm, and his ear sat comfortably in the space between Crowley’s thighs. He went slack again, despite himself, and savoured every brush of hot fingertips over his scalp, because it had been so long since anyone has touched him at all, and longer still since it’s been gentle...

Crowley reeked heavily of expensive cologne to drown the inescapable, underlying sulphur. Sam never thought he would enjoy the scent of rotten eggs.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Dean could hear screaming. He wasn’t quite sure if it was other souls somewhere beyond these imperceptible walls, or his own imagination. The subconscious does crazy things when it lives in a state of nothing. No sound. No change. Just this cell, these shackles, a single column of light, a complete darkness beyond. He saw faces in the dark, but he was at least (mostly) certain those weren’t real.

A click— a simple click— preceded the hissing lurch of that door opening _finally, so fucking finally_. He wasn’t shaking, definitely not shaking, as his heart settled painfully in his dry throat.

“It’s been about, oh, six months, now. What do you say we get down to business?”

Dean swallowed, and croaked out little more than “—ck you.” Damn if he was going to cave without even being touched.

The door screeched shut, and Dean Winchester cried.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“You’re a hallucination!”

Lucifer rolled his eyes. “ _You’re_ a hallucination.”

Sam didn’t look up, just scrawled another Sharpie sigil on the bedroom wall. “If you were real, you couldn’t get in here.”

“Oh, please. None of this is real, Sammy. Crowley taking care of you? How gullible can you be?”

Sam stepped off the chair, and set it back next to the table. “Then why would you do all this?”

It sounded so much more rational in his head, before his sleep-deprived, trembling voice got in the way. The archangel shrugged casually, striding towards him. Sam pretended fear wasn’t pooling inside him. “You know the worst thing you can do to a person? Give them hope.”

Sam rubbed his eyes, clearing the desire for sleep, and the urge to look away. “This doesn’t make sense.”

He didn’t hear the front door open.

Lucifer scoffed. “You thrive on what doesn’t make sense.”

“Where’s my pup?” came the call from the entryway.

Sam dropped his hands, and gave a quick glance to the angel, like an animal wondering if it can escape a predator, before he dashed into the living room. Crowley’s lips quirked as Sam hurried to him, and dropped to his knees right there, because he was too damn tired for a power struggle right now, just wanted to be safe and warm, and since Crowley was both of those things, so be it. The demon scratched affectionately behind his ear. “That’s a good pet. Comes when he’s called.”

For a second, Sam was safe.

“He’s not real, Sammy.” Lucifer reminded, standing behind him.

Sam left his eyes clenched shut, even as Crowley cupped his jaw and lifted his face, inspecting him like a show dog. That kind of repeated symbolism used to bother Sam, but right now, he didn’t care. He would be a dog if that’s what Crowley wanted, so long as it got rid of the hallucination, or maybe let him sleep... “You look like Hell. I should know.”

The ex-hunter glanced at where Lucifer had now taken residence beside them, and Crowley followed his gaze before locking their eyes again. “I like my things in pristine condition. Tell Daddy what’s wrong so he can fix it.”

The Winchester pushed Crowley’s hand from his face and dropped his eyes to the floor, pointedly ignoring how the demon let his hand explicitly linger against Sam’s. The King of Hell dropped to one knee— in a tailored, _expensive suit_ — and pushed a piece of untrimmed hair behind Sam’s ear. The affection was too loud; it put him on edge. “I expect an answer.”

Sam swallowed his pride and every lesson of repression Dad and Dean had ever taught him. Not like they would care anymore, right? He was dead. Permanently. “I’m hallucinating.”

Crowley’s eyes narrowed, from the lower lids up, something scientific and analytical in it. “Hallucinating what?”

“All of this.” Lucifer interjected.

“Lucifer.” he replied instead.

Crowley’s right hand was warm in Sam’s, and his left hot against the freezing sweat on the back of his neck. It was a painfully, beautifully stark contrast to Lucifer’s tendency to leave him shivering. “I thought I told you he was roasting in the Cage with the other brother.”

Sam didn’t want to explain right now, just wanted to lay his head in Crowley's lap and pretend to sleep, because that was as close as he would get to it. “He says you’re the hallucination.”

The demon breathed, a tone of disappointment buried there. Sam wanted to take it back almost reflexively. “If this were a hallucination, would you have believed it?”

The Winchester’s eyes met the King of Hell’s, and remained. He shook his head, sporadically, childlike, because he hadn’t been this scared since he was nine, and the monsters in his head were so much scarier than the ones that Dad told him weren’t real. “No.”

“There’s your answer.” he said, and pressed hot lips to Sam’s forehead. It was gentle, and kind, and nurturing, and Sam felt genuinely safe, and _no_ , he never would have believed it.

Crowley pulled away, and that was the last thing Sam wanted: to be alone and scared and ungrounded without touch, _Crowley’s_ touch, so he grabbed the man’s tie and pulled him back in. He caught his lips, this time.

Sam immediately learned that Crowley was a really, _really good_ kisser. His lips were hot, and wet, and never stayed in the same pattern for long. He didn’t use tongue insistently for the sake of tongue; it was just the natural progression of kiss. Sam found himself being pushed back, back, until he was laying on rich hardwood with a demon straddling his midsection (and Crowley managed that without once breaking their lips, what a wonderful talent). His hand skimmed from the Winchester’s neck down his arm, to lace their fingers and pin both his hands above his head: he wouldn’t be a demon if there wasn’t a touch of violence behind everything.

When Crowley’s lips finally disconnected, Sam followed them until his neck strained, and dropped back to the floor. The demon looked smug as ever, the wonderful bastard. “Is he still here?”

It took Sam a moment to understand what he meant as his brain caught up on _I just kissed Crowley_ and _Why am I not still kissing Crowley?_ He craned his neck left, then right, as Crowley took the opportunity to nip lightly at either side— _absolute bastard_.

“Oh, look. Little Sammy’s getting it on with another demon. You really are an abomination.”

Dejectedly, “Yeah. He’s here.”

Crowley hummed and just barely pinched his jaw with his teeth. “Then he’s going to get quite a show.” he said, standing. Sam felt automatically cold. “Come on.”

Lucifer dispersed, like dust in sunlight, as the King of Hell— _the King of Hell that took Lucifer’s place_ — passed through him, striding down the hallway to the bedroom.

Sam didn’t have to follow. He could have stayed where he was, and pretended that kissing Crowley was some misguided attempt at maintaining sanity, but _why the Hell would he want to?_

Sam Winchester walked (calmly, he most certainly did not galumph) into the bedroom. Crowley was holding the door, and eyed him predatorily as he passed. “Love what you’ve done with the place.” Crowley murmured, hanging his jacket over the back of the chair. His genuinity and sarcasm sounded the same at this point. On some level, they were.

“What?” A glance about the room revealed scratches of black on the unimportant grey. _Oh_. Right. Sigils. “Sorry, I, uh...”

“Bit tacky, but the room was rather dull.” Crowley assured, pulling off his shoes as he eyed the roughly scribbled symbols on grey. “Did it work?”

Sam’s gaze flicked over them, cataloguing and identifying. He was still shaking, still wondering _what next?_ “No.”

“Pity.” the demon responded, loosening his tie before pulling it over his head— and looping it over the taller man’s to pull tightly about his neck. Sam gasped as he was dragged to, and thrown down on, the bed. His heartbeat was obnoxious in his ears, his neck, his chest, his entire body throbbing with nervous desire. Crowley’s tie was tight on his neck, and his lips were scorching against his skin, and his hands were quick on the buttons of Sam’s shirt. The demon’s tongue trailed a wet line down Sam’s chest, and he wondered if Crowley considered this when he started laying out button-ups instead of tees not two days ago. He really didn’t want to think about that right now. He didn’t want to think at all, honestly.  

The human worked on the demon’s shirt buttons— as best he could, through the shaking. _I have never been more nervous in my life. Or aroused._ Crowley wasn’t gentle (as if Sam had expected him to be), all teeth, impatience, and friction from jeans, slacks, and two pairs of underwear between them— and Sam was painfully hard. The King of Hell rocked deliciously, and Sam returned in kind, grunting. The friction lifted, only to allow Crowley’s fingers to hook under Sam’s undone pants and yank them down to his knees. Sam bit his lip and covered his eyes, like that would hide how completely flushed his face was, as his erection sprang up, and was quickly covered by Crowley’s obliging hand. Then came— _oh God!_ — his mouth, still startlingly hot and slick as his tongue circled the crown, and took its entirety down his throat: _depraved, filthy, wonderful demon!_ Sam gasped, his fingers curling in the red silk sheets.

Sam had slept with Ruby a number of times, so he thought he knew what he was getting in for, hopping into bed with a demon. Crowley wasn’t a crossroads demon anymore: he was the King of Hell, practically a god, and he was _deepthroating Sam Winchester. He didn’t even gag!_ Crowley pulled off with a pop, which was really hot— _but kind of gross_ — and locked eyes with Sam. He looked wild and beastial with his shirt hanging open, one elbow down on the mattress, and his eyes were even worse, because he looked at Sam like he wanted to devour him whole.

“Roll over, pup.”

Sam didn’t even think, just did, burying his face in the covers and pinning his erection to his stomach. He felt Crowley lift from the bed, heard him open the bedside drawer (the drawer of things Sam didn’t like to think about, including that lube Crowley had joked of, because _of course_ he would take the joke further than any rational person. ...If it even was a joke?) Through his bangs, he saw him flick open a plastic cap and spread the thick, clear liquid over his fingers. Sam hid his face again, and let the anticipation wash over him. One warm hand splayed over his left ass cheek, while cold, cold fingers gently stroked his puckered hole.

“Sh, sh, sh...” Crowley soothed, dry hand gliding up the taller man’s back. “Relax, pet.”

“I’m— mf!— trying...” he whimpered as a single finger slipped inside.

“This is the easy part. I can’t wait to see why you’re like when I stuff something bigger in you...”

He moaned at that, and forced himself to relax as a second finger prodded its way in. “That’s a good boy.” Crowley praised, spreading his fingers apart, twisting, spreading, then crooked them in a way that sent a jolt of electricity up the human’s spine— “Fuck!”

“There you are...” Crowley murmured, pulling back, pushing in, three fingers this time, aimed for just the same spot, repeating the action again, _again_.

“Fuck, _shit!_ Oh my God, shhhhhit!”

The demon’s free hand lightly grazed up his spine, sending electric chills surging through every nerve ending. Sam had almost forgotten the tie around his neck until he felt its silken tug constrict his airway. It pinched into his arteries tightly as Crowley pulled it further until Sam was in upward-dog, glazing eyes locked with the demon’s as he flicked over his prostate. Crowley looked unhinged with his face flushed, pupils dilated, but the smug smile broke any illusion of him being out of control.

“Ready, pup?” he asked, and removed his finger. _Damn him_.

He was nodding fervently before he was aware, even if things were going a little fuzzy from lack of blood flow. Crowley dropped him, and all Sam could really do was blink, flex his fingers to make sure they were still there.

Behind him, there was a jingle of Crowley’s belt coming off, followed by a swift, leather strike on his right buttock. Sam yelped, and Crowley laughed.

“Hands and knees.” the King of Hell ordered, moving off him.

Sam obeyed weakly, closed his eyes, and listened to the demon shuffle his pants off, rip open a foil package and felt two fingers spread him open again before something thin, wet, and prehensile slicked into him— which was really _not_ what he had been expecting.

“Holy shit! Is that your tongue!?” he panted, glaring over his shoulder, and faltering under focused, dark eyes peering over the curve of his rear. “That’s disgusting!”

He gripped Sam’s cock, painfully tight, as he withdrew. “Keep talking like that, and I might stop. Is that what you want?”

His voice was rougher— lower— than usual. Sam swallowed thickly, and stared at the intricate cut-away headboard.

“That’s what I thought.” Crowley gloated, and went back to circling his entrance.

The ex-hunter was so absorbed with his alight nerves, he didn’t notice the plastic cap popping open again. He did notice when Crowley replaced his tongue with something significantly larger. Sam gasped and tensed, then remembered himself and forced all the constrictions of his muscles into his whitened knuckles and crimped toes. The demon waited until he loosened before easing himself in.

Memories hazed, fog-like in his mind, pictures and phrases like “ _sold his soul for an extra three inches below the belt_ ” and “ _just trying to hit double-digits_ ” and Sam supposed he should have expected the overpowering sensation of fullness.

He could feel Crowley’s chest press to his back, breathing slow and deep, and determined to remain so. He nipped lazily at Sam’s ear and murmured “Are we alone?”

Sam wet his lips and reluctantly glanced at the end table, wincing as Crowley began to move in gradually increasing strokes.

“I don’t have to tell you how wrong this is.” Lucifer replied, a mix of disinterest and disappointment.

“No...” Sam squeaked, moaned as the demon pushed fully into him, abandoning all that gentleness he had been limiting himself to.

“ _Good_.” Crowley hissed as he began pumping into him. “I want that punk-ass holy roller to watch while I defile his favourite boy. Because you’re not his. You’re mine, understand? My new favourite pup, my little pet...”

He kept talking, a flurry of praise, pet names, and ferocity. Sam would have mocked “Big pet”— if he could make sounds other than gasps interspersing unintelligible noises of pleasure. The soreness was waning into a dull ache, close enough to pain that he felt human. Alive. Real. The only problem was his unattended hard-on, bobbing uncomfortably in time with Crowley’s thrusts. He considered rubbing himself out, but didn’t want to risk offending the demon. Decisively, he quietly snaked one hand down to stroke himself: _yes, yes!_

Crowley seized the human’s wrists and wrenched them painfully back, impaling Sam on his cock, and he _screamed_. The demon’s lips were at his ear, breath tickling. “I’ll take care of you, pet, promise.” He threw down the Winchester, grabbed him by the hair, and smothered his face in the silken sheets. Crowley angled his hips _just so_ , tickling agonisingly slow over that over-sensitive bundle. “ _When_ I’m finished with you.”

He unsheathed himself in one long stroke, and lifted Sam’s hands to clutch the headboard. “ _Don’t let go._ ” was all he growled out, the words clipped and challenging, before he slid into him again. It didn’t hurt this time, now that the human was well and truly stretched.

Sam’s hands flexed on the headboard, then clamped as he tried to ignore his still very hard, very untouched cock. The angle was different, Sam more diagonal than parallel to the mattress, and it all felt too much.  Sam’s nerves were burning, sensitized; he was leaking precome on the bright silk sheets, and he was overheating, tachycardic, shaking. He wanted it to be over. Actually, he just wanted some relief, because Crowley was fucking him _perfectly_ and Sam couldn’t come. Absolutely cruel and unusual. Should be illegal— like that would stop the King of Hell. Generally— fuck. Fuck Crowley— well, that’s what he was already doing, isn’t it? He just wanted Crowley to get off, so he’d let Sam off. What the hell turns on Crowley?— well. Lots of things came to mind. Sam swallowed his pride because quite frankly, ejaculation was a lot more important to him than pride right about now.

“Yes, just like that, yes, that’s good, yes, fuck, yes, thank you, please, God yes, _yes!_ ” It started quiet, half-mumbled and awkward, but sensory overload has a way of removing every filter your brain has set over the course of your life, and before Sam knows it he’s repeating “Goddammit Crowley, harder, please, fuck me harder!”

Crowlet _really enjoying_ the obscenity pouring from Sam’s mouth. Demon; what else did he expect? He grabbed him by the hair and wrenched back, but Sam was a good boy, always had been, and kept his hands on the headboard. “You’re a filthy whore, aren’t you?” Crowley practically moaned; he was losing it, _Thank God!_ “Bollocks, do I love it!” Crowley growled, and Sam screamed while he plunged in and held— not from that: from the teeth clamped on his trapezius muscle. His eyes were watering, and if he wanted, he could map out every nerve that run through his shoulder, because pain was shooting down them— he nearly had very nearly forgotten about his still very-present erection, when Crowley wrapped his hand around it. He pumped him as he pumped into him, struggling to finish him before he lost hardness— and oh, finish Sam did. He gasped, still clutching the headboard as his head snapped back without really meaning to, it moved the tissue of his shoulder and sent fresh sparks racing as his semen streaked the fine sheets. Sam had been bitten before, of course, but never like that, never hard enough to make it tender to flex. He kind of liked it.

They both stilled, and breathed. Crowley was the first to regain sentience, lift himself from the bed, remove his filled condom, and drop it in the trash. He said something about “The better advancements of post-medieval medicine” but Sam didn’t catch it, hazed as he was. The Winchester became very aware he was straddling a puddle of his own ejaculate, and was naturally disgusted by it, but he doubted Crowley cared, so he didn’t either, simply teetered to the side of it, and went limp there, long arms outstretched to keep him clutching the wood panel.

“You can let go now, pup.” Crowley said bemusedly.

The Winchester released, flopped down, and though that sent a shock to his fresh bite mark, promptly fell into sleep.


End file.
